The Hard Place
by CC Writes
Summary: Stuck between a rock and a hard place, eight teenagers with very different problems will find that they all have one thing in common: the will to survive. However, the real question is, whose will is stronger? T
1. Things That Change Lives

The Hard Place  
><strong>Chapter I<strong>

"_Sick and tired of this world / there's no more air / trippin' over myself / goin' nowhere, waitin' / suffocatin', no direction / and I took a dive."  
>- One the Way Down, by Ryan Cabrera<br>_

[ Gunnar's Point of View ]

The smell of the air just made me sick. I honestly don't even know why I'm here. I wanted to throw up now. It smelt like dead animal and straight up black coffee from that shitty ass coffee shop down the road. It made me want to claw my eyeballs out. It made me want to rip off my nose and become like Lord Voldemort from _Harry_ fucking _Potter_.

It made me want to die.

I was the new kid. It was a new town. It was a new place. A new place that smelt like rotten shit and looked like a tornado had hit it multiple times. The weather was gloomy- like it hadn't been sunny in years. My therapist had told my mom it be best to get me out of the last city for a while, until my disillusionment wore off.

But what am I disillusioned from _exactly_?

I swing my bag over my shoulder and look up at the small shack we bought. My father and siblings did not join us. It's gonna suck without Magnus. Sure, he's a raging homo, but I loved him like that. He was always so in touch with everything.

How could anyone possibly hate him?

I miss Magnus…

I drag my bag into my little room. It's a bed, a window, a closet, and a desk. It smells better in my home than it does outside, and that's okay. I like it. I like a lot of things.

I sit down on the bare mattress and listen as my mother speaks on the phone in a low voice. Yes, we got her okay. Yes, I haven't really said anything since we got here… no…

No…

No…

No…

I must have been screaming, because my mother rushes in and lays me down on the bed. Stroking my pale hair, she whispers words I can't hear- I can't understand. I wait for her to leave.

…when did tears become so sour…?

* * *

><p>[ Third Person ]<p>

Sipping her tea, straightening the ruffles on her dress, blue eyes were trained on the window as the rain began to pour down harder. "She's such a refined, young lady." Ignoring the voices, she set down the cup and dabbed at her lips. "For what she's gone through."

"How are we going to tell her no one is willing to adopt?"

Flinching, she set down the napkin, and folded her hands in her hips. She resisted the urge to play with her hair- she hated it when it started to fall flat. The curls _had_ to be lively- like her. If they weren't lively, then how could she be?

"Miss Rose?" Turning her head to face the director of the agency, she watched as the elderly woman and husband took a seat at the long desk. "I'm sorry darling… no one in Clamburg wants to take you. Do you know of any _other_ relatives, Charlotte?"

Shaking her head, she looked down at her shiny, black Mary Janes. "All I know is that my parents aren't around anymore…" Quirking a gray eyebrow, the woman cleared her throat- almost violently.

"I thought your parents were…?"

Another flinch and guilty, sky blue eyes told the couple enough. "Virginia… that's where you're from, correct?" Nodding, Charlotte knew what was to come. She knew she'd be back in the hands of her parents. She knew that she was fucked.

The couple left and she turned her attention back to the window. Her perfect life- sunny and bright- was about to be overcastted.

* * *

><p>Eyes narrowed, she huffed as she tried not to scream loudly. She wasn't in control, and she was one-hundred percent aware of that. It made her gut turn and her insides explode. Vendetta <em>hated<em> when she wasn't in charge or in control. Vendetta wanted to _kill_ when she couldn't do what she wanted.

Lucky for her, Viktoria balanced out Vendetta.

The moving trucks drove by and she clenched her fist. Vendetta hated people moving to _her_ town.

_Detta, why are you so mad?_

Gritting her teeth, the Bulgarian hissed to herself. "Shut up, you piece of shit. I hate you. You sound like stupid _Charlotte_." Green eyes narrowed, a hidden fire in her irises documenting how much she _hated_ that stupid blonde girl with the big blue eyes.

_Detta, why do you care if someone moves in here?_

"Because, stupid _Toria_," she turned to see no one standing next to her, but in her deranged mind, she believed she was really talking to someone else. The rain soaked her dark brown hair to a darker, almost black shade. She removed a hair tie from her wrist and began to pull her hair into pigtails.

_Don't call me stupid!_

"Shut _up_!" she screamed and glared at the little shack. "I'm in charge. Not you! You're nothing but a shadow- a memory. You don't matter."

_You know Vendetta, you're right. __**You**__ don't matter._

Her fists clenched and she collapsed right there and then on the ground. She hated feeling inferior. She hated losing. She hated not feeling in control…

That's why she hated herself, because no matter who she was, she was never, completely and fully, in control of _herself._

The rain hid the tears running down her face.

* * *

><p>[ Gunnar's Point of View ]<p>

My window was open. I heard the screaming. I hear the voice of her. I see her body shake as she cries out into the wind. I see she is talking with no one else there. I see she has lost it.

I see a lot of things. Life, I see it. I see it as…

As…

As…

As one big fucking joke.

I close my window and draw the blinds, curling up into a ball.

If only Magnus was here…

* * *

><p><strong>I do not own Making Fiends or any songs used in this story to come. Keep this in mind. This will be the only disclaimer throughout the entire story. Also, the portrayal of characters do not reflect the actual personalities of those on the show. That's why they call it Fanfiction.<strong>

_Okay, so, I'm back, with another interesting, dark, and twisted story. After rereading __Things Change__, I realized my love for all things… like this. So this is something I can't wait to share with you._

_This chapter doesn't even introduce all the main characters. However, Gunnar's stream-of-consciousness monologues are pretty important as the story progresses. Other monologues will take place as the story progresses._

_Okay, well, I think that's it. Any questions?_

_No? Good._

_**Adios~!**__  
>Darlene :)<em>


	2. Death Changes Everything

The Hard Place  
><strong>Chapter II<strong>

"_It's hard to say it / time to say it / goodbye, goodbye."  
>- Photograph, by Nickelback<em>

[ Mort's Point of View ]

That awkward moment when you wake up just like Ke$ha- passed out in a bath tub, covered in vomit, glitter, and booze.

Glitter- why was there glitter? I roll out of the bathtub, and land on the soft, fuzzy rug. No one else has this soft fuzzy rug but the Crane. Oh, how I love this rug. It's a dingy shade of white- white like snow. Snow… snow is like… cocaine.

Fuzzy and warm- like the feeling I get on various substances- mostly heroin. Smiling, I feel the rug engulf me in a big, warm hug. "I love you too, Mr. Rug. I love you a lot." As I say this, my stomach begins to lurch and I give a violent heave, emptying whatever I had last night…

Now the rug is a bit yellow, mixed with some black… wait, vomit shouldn't be black.

Black… like marijuana.

I should get me some.

I grab the counter and force myself to my feet, trying to steady myself. I take whatever towel or wash cloth is lying around and dab the vomit and sweat from my face. I wish I was back on the ground, but I know for a fact that I can't spend all day passed out in black vomit. Something tells me I have alcohol poisoning, but I really don't care.

I'm happy and that's all that matters.

"Hey, Crane," I call, after I compose myself enough to make it seem I've been sober for a while- not pulling a Ke$ha. "Sorry 'bout your rug." He didn't respond, so I shrugged and grabbed my jacket. I look in the full length mirror, and see vomit all over my nice black shirt and dark dress pants. "Ah shit. Better get home and clean this off before Mom has a cow."

And for this moment, I'm content. Until I need another fix, I won't see the brown apartment- brown because no one cleans. I won't see the Crane or Diana or whoever else is around. I won't hear the baby crying because her mother is too fucked up to give a shit.

That's why I'm content, because I won't have to give a shit about anyone for the next two hours.

* * *

><p>As soon as I arrive home, I make my way into the laundry room. Lucky for me, the rest of the family is out of state. I stayed behind, saying I had to be here for Marvin, because his mom's about to die. My mother smiled and told me how proud she was for me caring so much about him…<p>

Let's be honest, I don't give two _shits_ about Marvin, okay? The bastard and I haven't been on speaking terms for ten _fucking_ years.

"Tsk, tsk," a voice calls, and I freeze. "You're such a great friend." I inhale deeply and rub my head. I'm so not in the fucking mood.

* * *

><p>[ Third Person ]<p>

Mort's gray-blue eyes narrowed as he crossed his dark skinned arms across his chest. "I should call the cops on your ass." Her teal eyes flickered with slight amusement. She smiled, holding up a set of spare keys- the ones he had given the tan female _years_ ago.

"Not if I have a key." Obviously, pleased with his lack of anything to say, she smiled and began to roll up her sleeves, taking a seat on the sofa. "So, Morton, how are you?" His gray blue eyes lingered on her arms- multiple cuts and bruises and burn marks lingered on the tan skin. Over the years he grew accustomed to this. After all, you only have so many people in this town you don't want to bludgeon to death with a sledge hammer…

"I'm fine," he offered, taking a seat on the floor across from her, watching her flick the lighter underneath her arm until the skin began to bubble. He wanted to throw up for two reasons: one, because he was still trying to get over last night and two, because the idea of doing that to yourself made him sick.

If you were trying to kill yourself, why not do it in a way where you have fun doing it and don't realize it?

'_Like drugs, I'm sure_,' he thought to himself, but let the idea drift away. "So, Mags, you never come around unless it's important."

"It was, but you wouldn't care." Maggie's voice was as calm as ever- very monotone and cold. Even with a fire basically lit on her arms, she didn't seem to be feeling anything. Mort figured she desensitized herself enough over the years to not even feel anything.

"Who said?"

"I believe your exact words were," she flipped her black hair over her shoulders. She obviously needed it cut, bad. "And I do quote you, 'I don't give two shits about Marvin.' So obviously, you won't give two shits about this."

Rolling his eyes, he pulled out of his pocket a pair of glasses, examining them. Somehow, they were the only thing still intact that belonged to him. Funny thing was, not even he was completely intact. He snorted and slipped them on.

It always seemed God had kept his glasses in mint condition so he could see the shit he did to himself and how that made him look…

"Is it Karen?" he asked, done musing with the thought.

"She's dead." Mort frowned and Maggie continued, "Died last night. Fucking hung herself from the roof, just so her bastard kids could see it." Chewing on his bottom lip, he twitched and buried his head in his hands, between his knees. "Don't vomit. I'm not cleaning it up."

"I thought she was dying of something else?"

"She was, but she was smart enough to end it early."

"Why would she do that?" Mort snapped, anger rushing through his own veins. "Why would she even think that was an _option_?"

"She was stuck," Maggie began her world famous lecture. This was the lecture she gave him when he questioned his addiction abuse. This was the lecture she gave him when he ragged on her self-harm. "She was stuck between a rock and a hard place."

"So which is which?" he questioned, and this was how their conversations went. "Was the rock dying a normal death and sparing her kids the sight? Or was it the idea of having to make a big commotion about it?" Scoffing, the female put her lighter away and stood up, rolling down her sleeves and hissing in pain.

"The rock was death. The hard place was she didn't know how to handle it."

"Says the one who would probably do the same."

"Funeral's Wednesday." Opening the back door, Maggie shouted over her shoulder. "Wake's Tuesday. Have a great Sunday, you piece of shit. Try not to get too fucked up." The utter concern as she insulted him was one, big oxymoron. Sighing, he opened a fresh carton of cigarettes and reached into his pocket for a glitter covered lighter.

Slipping off his glasses, he inhaled and shook his head.

Sometimes, you just have to pretend like you can't see the problem right in front of your eyes.

* * *

><p>"Now, son…" Flinching, he hated how the man sounded. Obviously, the two weren't on the best of terms. He had been picked up multiple times within the past year or so. "Exactly what happened when you heard your siblings scream?"<p>

"Officer," clearing his throat, he began to complain. "I need to get home- I need to be with my family."

"Answer my question, son."

Rolling his sea green eyes, he ran a hand through messy brown hair. "I ran outside- like normal. Even if they are pricks, a brother's gotta watch out for them. I saw my mom's body dangling from the gutter on the roof. It was just… surreal."

The cop's eyes flashed him a dirty look. "Was your father home?" Snorting, the teen shook his head. "Okay, well," the young male looked toward his assistant. "I think that's all we can ask of you, Marvin. I'm sorry for your lost."

"Don't be, Officer Gump." Quirking an eyebrow, Officer Gump watched as Marvin sipped the cup of water in his hand. "I mean, she was dying anyway… it's just the… circumstances." The young male was honestly at a loss for words, but continued on with his rant. "My mother wasn't really around much anyway. It'd be like old times, except with more nightmares…"

"…you may leave, Marvin." The detective shuffled around the files. "By the way, it was nice to see you in here for reasons other than prostitution."

Marvin stood up, gritting his teeth. "It's not prostitution unless you can prove it," he stated, resisting the urge to smack the officer. "And you obviously can't. Plus, with no _real_ laws against it, it seems you lose… again."

With a dirty smirk, Marvin grabbed his coat and walked toward the door, turning on his heels to add, "And don't even bother coming to the funeral. You're not fucking welcomed."

With that, he left. Officer Gump glared, but said nothing. He'd let the boy have this victory, but he swore that one day, he would make sure that Marvin Sink was behind bars with all the other _whores_ in this damn town.

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter: School starts for Gunnar, Marvin's mom's visitation and  or funeral.**

_I had some issues with this chapter. It's not as long as I intended but it definitely is something I'm okay with. It could've been worse, honestly. Even if it is really short…_

_Officer Gump is going to be an important, one story OC probably._

_Also, there is going to be a lot of OOC moments for everyone, but hey, it makes the story work. It's also fan_fiction_.net. Key word: fiction._

_I don't remember Marvin's mom's name from earlier, but I know it started with a K, so from now on it's going to be Karen._

_Mort always ends up being comic relief. Sigh. Guess I can't _ever_ write him serious._

_**Adios~!**__  
>Darlene :)<em>


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